Best 64 of Nausea quotes - MyQuotes
All things nauseating and deadly are American, apparently. Well, okay, she can't disagree.
I know very well that I don't want to do anything: to do something is to create existence—and there's quite enough existence as it is.
Şu tepenin üstünde, kendimi onlardan ne kadar uzak hissediyorum. Sanki başka türdenim ben. Bütün gün çalıştıktan sonra bürolardan çıkıyor, evlere ve meydanlara neşeyle bakıp, bu kentin, kendi kentleri olduğunu, bir 'güzel burjuva kenti' niteliği taşıdığını düşünüyorlar. Korkmuyorlar; kendi yurtlarında olduklarını duyuyorlar. Musluklardan akan evcil kent suyundan, düğme çevrilince ampullerden yayılan ışıktan, dayanaklarla desteklenmiş melez ağaçlardan başka şey bilmezler. Her şeyin bir mekanizmaya uyarak ortaya çıktığını, dünyanın belli ve değişmez yasalara göre işlediğini günde yüz kere görürler: Boşlukta, bütün nesneler aynı hızla düşer; park yazın her gün saat altıda, kışın da dörtte kapanır; kurşun 335 derecede erir; son tramvay Hotel de Ville'den on biri beş geçe kalkar. Durgun, biraz asık suratlı kimselerdir. Yarın'ı, yani bugünün bir tekrarını düşünürler; kentlerde her sabah yeniden orataya çıkan tek bir gün vardır. Pazarları, bu tek günü az buçuk süslerler. Avanaklar! Güven dolu, kalın suratlarını göreceğimi düşündükçe tiksinti kaplıyor içimi. Yasalar yaparlar, bayağı romanlar yazarlar, çocuk yapma budalalığına düşmekten kurtulamazlar. Ama o koskoca, ne idüğü belirsiz doğa, kentlerine girmiş, her tarafa, evlerine, bürolarına, kendilerine bile sızmıştır. Doğa kıpırdamaz, olduğu gibi durur; onlar, içleri dolduğu, doğayı soludukları halde farkında değillerdir. Kentin dışında, yirmi kilometre uzakta olduğunu sanırlar doğanın. Onu görüyorum ben,bu doğayı görüyorum. Baş eğişinin tembellikten geldiğini biliyorum; yasaları olmadığını da biliyorum, onun düzenliliği sandıkları şey...Doğanın alışkanlıkları var yalnız, yarın değiştirebilir onları.
Ben onun gibi umutsuz değilim, çünkü beklediğim fazla bir şey yok. Ben daha çok...bana verilmiş, hem de bir hiç için verilmiş olan hayat karşısında şaşırmış durumdayım.
General ideas are more flattering. And then professionals and even amateurs always end up by being right
3-D is a waste of a perfectly good dimension. Hollywood's current crazy stampede toward it is suicidal. It adds nothing essential to the moviegoing experience. For some, it is an annoying distraction. For others, it creates nausea and headaches.
A może nikt nie rozumie własnej twarzy?
Özgürüm: Hiçbir yaşama nedeni kalmadı artık bana; denediğim bütün nedenler beni bıraktı; başkalarını da tasarlayamıyorum. Daha genç sayılırım, yeniden başlamaya yetecek gücüm var. Ama nereden başlamalı? En şiddetli korkulara, bulantılara düştüğümde beni kurtarır diye Anny'ye ne kadar güvenmiş olduğumu ancak şimdi anlıyorum. Geçmişim öldü, Bay de Rollebon öldü, Anny sadece bütün umutlarımı kırmak için geri geldi. Bahçeler boyunca uzayan şu beyaz sokakta yalnızım. Yalnız ve özgür. Ama bu özgürlük ölüme benziyor biraz.
Don't take me for a fool!" Dee interrupted angrily, but then had to lean over the boat as another bout of nausea gripped him. Virginia grinned and winked at Josh. "It's hard to sound masterful when you're throwing up, isn't it?" "I hate you, Virginia Dare," Dee mumbled. "I know you don't really mean that," she said lightly. "I do," he croaked.
People. You must love people. Men are admirable. I want to vomit—and suddenly, there it is: the Nausea
My passion was dead. For years it had rolled over and submerged me; now I felt empty. But that wasn't the worst: before me, posed with a sort of indolence, was a voluminous, insipid idea. I did not see clearly what it was, but it sickened me so much I couldn't look at it.
Undoubtedly, on his death bed, at that moment when, ever since Socrates, it has been proper to pronounce certain elevated words, he told his wife, as one of my uncles told his, who had watched beside him for twelve nights, "I do not thank you, Therese; you have only done your duty.
Aunque me quisiera con toda su alma, sería igualmente un amor de muerta.
Tenho a náusea física da humanidade vulgar, que é, aliás, a única que há. E, capricho, às vezes, em aprofundar essa náusea, como se pode provocar um vómito para aliviar a vontade de vomitar. A intriga, a maledicência, a prosápia falada do que se não ousou fazer, o contentamento de cada pobre bicho vestido com a consciência inconsciente da própria alma, a sexualidade sem lavagem, as piadas como cócegas de macaco, a horrorosa ignorância da inimportância do que são...
Pour que l'événement le plus banal devienne une aventure, il faut et il suffit qu'on se mette à le raconter.
The worst part about pregnancy would definitely have to be my nausea. I don't know why it's just called morning sickness because morning sickness never just happened in the morning for me and it's not happening just in the morning for my sister.
Perhaps it is impossible to understand one's own face. Or perhaps it is because I am a single man? People who live in society have learned how to see themselves in mirrors as they appear to their friends. I have no friends. Is that why my flesh is so naked?
Then, with an extended, falling glissando of disgust, the whole string section, plus flutes and piccolo, surged toward the brass, leaving the music critic and his deed - an early evening frites and mayonnaise on Oude Hoogstraat - illuminated under a lonely chandelier.
The dark has a eased a little. There has been a street-lamp burning, that has lit the threads of the bleached net scarf hung at the window, now it is put out. The light turns filthy pink. The pink gives way to sickly yellow. It creeps, and with it creeps sound - softly at first, then rising in a staggering crescendo: crowning cocks, whistles and bells, dogs, shrieking babies, violent calling, coughing, spitting, the tramp of feet, the endless hollow of beating hooves and the grinding of wheels. Up, up it comes, out of the throat of London. It is six or seven o'clock.
It was true, I had always realized it—I hadn’t any “right” to exist at all. I had appeared by chance, I existed like a stone, a plant, a microbe. I could feel nothing to myself but an inconsequential buzzing. I was thinking…that here we are eating and drinking, to preserve our precious existence, and that there’s nothing, nothing, absolutely no reason for existing.
The Nausea has stayed down there, in the yellow light. I am happy: this cold is so pure, this night so pure: am I myself not a wave of icy air? With neither blood, nor lymph, nor flesh. Flowing down this long canal towards the pallor down there. To be nothing but coldness.
The Nausea has not left me and I don't believe it will leave me so soon; but I no longer have to bear it, it is no longer an illness or a passing fit: it is I.
Wszyscy czekali łakomie na godzinę słodkich ciemności, odprężenia, zapomnienia, godzinę, w czasie której ekran, lśniący jak biały kamień w wodzie, będzie mówił i marzył za nich.
My existence began to worry me seriously. Was I not a simple spectre?
I lean all my weight on the porcelain ledge, I draw my face closer until it touches the mirror. The eyes, nose, and mouth disappear. Nothing is left. Brown wrinkles show on each side of the feverish swelled lips, crevices, mole holes. A silky, white down covers the great slopes of the cheeks, two hairs protrude from the nostrils: it is a geological embossed map. And, in spite of everything, this lunar world is familiar to me. I cannot say I recognize the details. But the whole thing gives me an impression of something seen before which stupefies me: I slip quietly off to sleep.
The word "noise" is derived from the Latin word nausea.
Perhaps it is impossible to understand one's own face ... People who live in society have learned how to see themselves in mirrors as they appear to their friends. I have no friends. Is that why my flesh is so naked? You might say -- yes you might say, nature without humanity.
Orson Scott Card
This emotion I'm feeling now, this is love, right?" "I don't know. Is it a longing? Is it a giddy stupid happiness just because you're with me?" "Yes," she said. "That's influenza," said Miro. "Watch for nausea or diarrhea within a few hours.
Czy miał pan dużo przygód?" Odpowiadam machinalnie: "Trochę." i rzucam się do tyłu, żeby uniknąć jego zionącego oddechu. Tak, powiedziałem to machinalnie, bez zastanowienia. Zazwyczaj jestem rzeczywiście raczej dumny, że miałem tyle przygód. Ale dzisiaj, ledwo wymówiłem te słowa, zdjęło mnie wielkie oburzenie na siebie: zdaje mi się już że kłamię, że przez całe życie nie miałem najmniejszej przygody, lub raczej że nie wiem, co oznacza to słowo.
all touch starting to sicken, as if the cells of my skin were individually nauseated
Ich najlepsze historie opowiadają o nierozważnych, o oryginałach, którzy zostali ukarani. No bo tak: tak właśnie jest i nikt nie po wie, że jest inaczej.
Her nausea increased, the dialect had become unfamiliar, the way our wet throats bathed the words in the liquid of saliva was intolerable. A sense of repulsion had invested all the bodies in movement, their bone structure, the frenzy that shook them. How poorly made we are, she thought, how insufficient. The broad shoulders, the arms, the legs, the ears, noses, eyes, seemed to her attributes of monstrous beings who had fallen from some corner of the black sky.
I knew what love was supposed to be: obsession with undertones of nausea.
Now she felt good. She felt great. She loved her swelling body, loved how everyone gave way before her, paid her tribute, wanted to touch her arm or shoulder. In the mirror, her face glowed. Her days of nausea were forgotten. Pregnancy was easy, it was a breeze on a summer day.
It is the reflection of my face. Often in these lost days I study it: I can understand nothing of this face. The faces of others have some sense, some direction. Not mine. I cannot even decide whether it is handsome or ugly. I think it is ugly because I have been told so. But it doesn't strike me. At heart, I am even shocked that anyone can attribute qualities of this kind to it, as if you called a clod of earth or a block of stone beautiful or ugly.
Others quite new when covered with ice, all white, all throbbing, are like swans about to fly, but the earth has already caught them from below. They twist and tear themselves from the mud, only to be flattened out a little further on.
If I were in their place, I’d fall over myself.
Give someone who has faith in you a placebo and call it a hair growing pill, anti-nausea pill or whatever, and you will be amazed at how many respond to your therapy.
You exaggerate everything. You continually force the truth because you're always looking for something.
I haven’t had any adventures. Things have happened to me, events, incidents, anything you like. But not adventures. It isn’t a matter of words; I am beginning to understand. There is something I longed for more than all the rest - without realizing it properly. It wasn’t love, heaven forbid, nor glory, nor wealth. It was…anyway, I had imagined that at certain moments my life could take on a rare and precious quality. There was no need for extraordinary circumstances: all I asked for was a little order. There is nothing very splendid about my life at present: but now and then, for example when they played music in the cafés, I would l look back and say to myself: in the old days, in London, Meknés, Tokyo, I have known wonderful moments, I have had adventures. It is that which has been taken away from me now. I have just learnt, all of a sudden, for no apparent reason, that I have been lying to myself for ten years. Adventures are in books. And naturally, everything they tell you about in books can happen in real life, but not in the same way. It was to this way of happening that I attached so much importance.
Then I wanted to sick up the gluey pie I'd had before the start of the evening, But I couldn't stand the sort of veshch, sicking all over the floor, so I held it back.
Nausea is an unsolved problem of medicine and marijuana is the finest anti-nausea medication known to science.
Everything is gratuitous, this garden, this city and myself. When you suddenly realize it, it makes you feel sick and everything begins to drift…that’s nausea.
My companions ate the bear. I found I had no appetite.
I don't even bother looking for words. It flows in me, more or less quickly. I fix nothing, I let it go. Through the lack of attaching myself to words, my thoughts remain nebulous most of the time. They sketch vague, pleasant shapes and then are swallowed up: I forget them almost immediately.
To doświadczenie zawodowe: lekarze, księża, urzędnicy i oficerowie znają się na człowieku tak, jakby go stworzyli.
Perhaps it was a passing moment of madness after all. There is no trace of it any more. My odd feelings of the other week seem to me quite ridiculous today: I can no longer enter into them.
Is nausea always a manifestation of grief? Who am I to know? I have never been thus before. Grief-stricken. Stricken is right; it is as though you had been felled. Knocked to the ground; pitched out of life and into something else.
(Sartre) (The world is full without me, as in Nausea; the world plays at living behind a glass partition; the world is in an aquarium; I see everything close up and yet cut off, made of some other substance; I keep falling outside myself, without dizziness, without blue, into precision.
I repeatedly refuse to make any practical decisions. I get a feeling of nausea about practicality.